


"Junior And Some Ham-Handed Faggot"

by Devilc



Category: James Ellroy -- LA Quartet, The Big Nowhere, White Jazz
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe, Closeted Character, Crime, Drugs, Los Angeles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny Upshaw survived the events of <i>The Big Nowhere</i> and becomes the "Ham-handed faggot" from Junior Stemmons' bedroom mentioned in <i>White Jazz</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Junior And Some Ham-Handed Faggot"

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a line said by Dave Klein in _White Jazz_. Danny Upshaw comes from _The Big Nowhere_. This is 100% AU territory.
> 
> The character of Danny Upshaw just grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go. This story is my way of exploring some of my ideas about the character. I in no way consider it a "fix" of James Ellroy's novel (although I do have some ideas about how Upshaw could've worked his way out of the bind he finds himself in in _TBN_). I also wanted to explore the idea of having sex with somebody you didn't really like.

Danny Upshaw settled back into the cushions of the couch and idly studied the man about to suck his cock. George Stemmons jr. Junior Stemmons. Talented detective, chain smoker, hophead, queer. Danny didn't really like Junior, but a phone call from the bastard could get him stiff in his suit pants while passes and not so casual caresses from women -- some of whom he actually liked as people -- did jack shit. The world was funny that way.

Oh, it wasn't like he and Junior had nothing in common, after all, it was their mutual love of evidence: collection, analysis, and forensic technique that had gotten them together in the first place. It was just that -- 

The sound of his zipper being yanked down jerked Danny back into reality. Junior was getting ready to do his thing, his eyes glazed with lust, but still a little remote and dreamy from whatever it was he was flying on these days. Danny preferred his self-medication legal. A generous shot of scotch to begin the day, a double with lunch, and 4 (sometimes 6) for a nightcap. But, whatever it took to get you through the day, right? Except Junior was babbling some **CRAAAZY** shit earlier. Danny tuned most of it out: dope addled ramblings about Junior setting himself up as the south side narco kingpin; skimming the take on busts; dirt he had on a fellow cop named Dave Klein -- how Klein had made him for a queer and wanted a deal, not ratting out Junior in exchange for Junior's not ratting out Klein for covering up a murder -- but Junior was going to nail Klein _and_ that cunt he was screwing. Whatever. Danny made a note to himself not to see Junior again until Junior dried out a bit, or unless he really needed the human contact. He closed his eyes, buried his fingers in Junior's carefully pomaded hair, and guided Junior's head where it needed to go.

The son of a bitch sucked like a hoover.

The deed done, Junior shuffled off to the bathroom of his reeking apartment, and came back with looped eyes, babbling about setting booby traps for Klein when that fucker came back to toss his apartment -- again.

"How about in the bedroom?" Danny asked, interrupting Junior's amped stream of shop talk -- he must've had a hit of something in the bathroom, because he was flying, mouth motoring as they walked down the hall.

Like an automaton, Danny stripped the suit and tie off of Junior. The only light in the bedroom came from whatever managed to fight its way in from behind the shade. It was enough. Junior's body ... going to shit, really. Years of heavy smoking had put a bit of flab on him, but the tracks going up both arms told the real story about Junior's thinner, but still soft frame these days. Despite everything, Junior's cock was just as big and hard as Danny remembered. He got a pins and needles feeling in his own groin just looking at it. He stripped off, looking down at his own body with stranger's eyes. Once young and athletic, but now entering its late 30s, his body showed the signs of late nights, too few square meals, and a steady diet of scotch.

Without preamble, Danny pounced on Junior, swallowing him to the root, digging the moan that cut off Junior's amped psycho-babble midstream. Sucking the way he liked to be sucked, vibing on the salty taste, the feel of the hardness, but most of all drinking in the smell that said **MALE**. Danny hated the way his body craved the bodies of other men, hated the deep shuddering satisfaction a man gave him, hated every live wire nerve in his body for screaming "yes! yes! yes!" right now, hated himself for loving it so much, loving it more more than his favorite Johnny Walker Red or Cutty Sark.

But most of all he hated the fact that he had to hide it. Hide it with fucking militant zeal.

Junior froze deep in his mouth, paused for that split second as slight tremors raced up and down his thighs. Danny braced himself for the first blast of hot and salty, gulping it down when it came.

Somewhere along the line he had gotten hard again. Climbing up next to where the smiling and sweaty Junior had flopped back on to the matress, Danny nudged him in the thigh and asked, "Got any Vaseline?"

"Got some KY right here in the nightstand." Junior rolled and made for the drawer.

Stomach lurching, images of Marty Goines' mutilated body flashing before his mind's eye, Danny stayed Junior's hand. "Uh, no," Danny said firmly. "It reminds me too much of a case I worked." He gulped down several breaths of the stale air in an effort to calm his rolling stomach.

Junior returned from the bathroom a few minutes later with a with a bottle of Jergens. He warmed a huge dollop of it between his hands before laving it on Danny's aching erection, all but drooling on it in his eagerness. Danny chuckled to himself a bit as he thought about how Junior walked the walk, cop guy tough, but in the bedroom, he was always the catcher, never the pitcher.

"Grab the headboard." Danny positioned himself behind Junior and slowly guided himself in, giving Junior time to adjust, Junior's satisfied sigh giving him the go ahead. Lacing his hands with Junior's, Danny began slamming home. As always, Tim and prom night '39 danced through his head, as did all the regrets the intervening decades had brought, but most of all he wished it was Tim -- now a high school phys-ed teacher and happily married father of 3 -- he was pumping right now.

"Oh, Johnny, oh! That's it, right there!" Junior panted, causing Danny to falter a bit before 3 quick hard jabs to the prostate sent Junior spraying all over the pillow and he followed a moment later.

As he wiped himself with the sheet, Danny figured "Johnny" for Johnny Duhamel. Danny wasn't really hurt by it, because after all, he was thinking of somebody else, too. But, damn, Johnny Duhamel ... well, Junior certainly had an eye for them. Duhamel was Physique Pictorial pretty, but even over at the Sheriff's Department the rookie LAPD officer had a rep as a primo snatch-hound. Talk about the unattainable...

Looking at his watch, Danny said, "Well, that was certainly an interesting way to spend the afternoon, Junior, but it's time to motor."

"Yeah," Junior mumbled, his eyes live-wire dreamy as he swiped at his ass with the sheet. "I got it all set up," he rambled, "when I get in place, I'm taking you with me. You can transfer, and all the time we spend -- no one will suspect."

Danny sighed and paused for a moment, then hiked his pants (now horribly rumpled  why hadn't he thought to drape them over a chair?) the rest of the way up. He got laid maybe 4-5 times a year, and most of the time it was thanks to Junior. The idea had its appeal, but ... Junior was a dirty cop, and Danny didn't want to be. He studied Junior's face for a moment, then flicked his eyes to the tracks marching up both arms. "I'll think about it. If you clean up, Junior. Mainlining and spikes, that's bad news."

" 'S all right Danny, I got it under control."

Mentally Danny rolled his eyes. He decided to switch the subject as he buttoned his equally rumpled shirt. "So, what was it you were saying about Johnny Duhamel earlier?" He figured that Junior would probably launch into some lust-lorn spiel, easy to tune out.

Junior gave a manic giggle. "Oh, I'm hedging my bets with him, Danny. See, most cops don't know that I'm actually a real good detective." His eyes glowed with an almost atavistic light, "Naw naw naw, they just look at me and see George Stemmons' little boy and think it's real cute that I'm following in daddy-cop's footsteps. Or if they didn't know my dad, they just write me off as the guy who taught them about evidence at the academy and now I'm just doing some obligatory street time so I can have the kind of record that gets promotions." Junior giggled again, setting Danny's teeth on edge, "Dig this. Fucking Chief Exley is running him on Captain Dudley Smith!" Junior chortled with glee.

Danny goggled.

"Yeah," Junior gloated, "Exley thinks he covered his tracks so well, but I got a file full of evidence down at my bank. It's my rainy day fund. My reserve against Klein and what ever shit he's got on me, 'cause it's worth a really big favor from Chief Exley or Captain Smith."

Acid boiled in Danny's stomach. He shivered as alternating waves of fear and hate raced through his body. Try as he might, he could not keep the tremor from his voice, "Junior, I don't know about Exley, but whatever you do, do not go to Dudley Smith, especially if you've been touched with the queer brush. He'll use you and probably kill you first chance he gets. He's dirty beyond your wildest dreams and completely untouchable. Trust me. I know."

"Aren't we all a little dirty? Besides he's fellow LAPD, I think I know him better than you do. But, eh, in a month I'll be sitting pat -- you'll see."

"Whatever." Danny felt his mouth curl into a sad half-smile. "And next time, my place."

Jogging down the steps to his car, he wished Chief Exley good luck in whatever it was he was doing against Smith, and he wished Junior good luck if he was loony enough to cross either of them.

He would need it.

**Author's Note:**

> Has a sequel in [Winter 1958, Reckoning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/31928)


End file.
